Out of the Blue: Political Animal
by Stars and Garters
Summary: What happens when you've saved the world, accepted a high profile political appointment, and a pretty girl just insulted your coffee? It's just business as usual for Hank McCoy, X-Man, Avenger and UN Ambassador! Beast/OC ON HIATUS, sorry.
1. Emerson, Lake & Palmer: Live

**Author's Note:** Let me begin by saying that I'm utterly new to this whole e-publishing thing, so if I make egregious mistakes, please forgive me. Basically, it boils down to this: I am lucky enough to be a writer in "real life", I started in comics, I now work in television (and, no, I'm no one you've heard of, nor am I really 'Corinne Carson'—but thanks for wondering.) In 2006, I wrote the following and pitched it as a 3-issue X-Men "movie-verse" graphic novel. It was the first fiction I had written in ten years. It was submitted with fingers crossed, and was politely declined. I then had several cocktails regarding this incident. Along the way—and after the cocktails—I encountered a fellow X-Fan who suggested that she, and maybe some of you kind people, would like to read it—and so it begins. I will say that I try to work on adapting the script into prose in between my paying gigs so it may be slow going at times, and for that I beg your indulgence. I also intend to keep the 3-act structure of the original graphic novel intact, so let's begin with issue one: _"Political Animal"_. And thank you all for stopping by.

**Legal line**: _Hank McCoy, Beast _© Marvel Entertainment, Inc. Characters and Situations created in _"X-Men: The Last Stand"_ © 2006 Twentieth-Century Fox Corporation. _"Karn Evil 9, First Impression, Pt. 2" _© 1973 Keith Emerson, Greg Palmer. _Enrique Doble, Harrison Sterling_ © this author. Author receives no filthy lucre from this publication.

**"_Once upon a time … on an island called Manhattan; there lived a Beast who worked very hard at being a man."_**

**Out of the Blue: Political Animal**

**by**

**Corinne Carson**

**Chapter 1: Emerson, Lake & Palmer: Live at Turtle Bay**

"Gonna' rain, _Jefe_," Enrique Doble said as he gave a glance to the dull, pewter sky above Manhattan.

Behind the wheel of the black Lincoln Navigator, the handsome Dominican shifted his gaze to the rearview as he addressed the passenger in the SUV's back seat.

Doble's skin was the color of cream-infused coffee, his broad face combined the African, Spanish and Indian signatures of his Caribbean ancestors. The eyes looking into the mirror were an arresting shade of golden-hazel brought to the New World by a generation of conquistadors. Beside him, the man in the shotgun seat could easily have been his twin; both men wore the same sharply-tailored suit—Brooks Brothers meets Tony Montana-and Shotgun Man leaned forward to adjust the radio dial. With a touch of a button, _NPR's Morning Edition_ was replaced by the lively banter of the Latino shock-jocks of WSKQ's _El Vacilón de la Mañana._

From the rear of the SUV, the rumble of an emphatic throat-clearing returned the airwaves to WNYC, where the _NPR _commentators discussed the previous day's memorials honoring the anniversary of 9/11. Five years since that terrible day, six months since the mutant attack on Alcatraz Island that the press had dubbed M-Day.

In the rearview, Enrique's gaze was met with eyes the color of the Irish Sea.

Ambassador Henry McCoy peered from beneath bushy blue eyebrows that swept away from a deep, primitive brow like startled birds taking wing. Rimless bifocals perched on the bridge of a nose that Italian sculptors still carved into Carrara stone-broad and noble, and once broken during a third-quarter tackle. The corners of the wide, expressive mouth turned down briefly as he returned to the newspaper.

He wore the accustomed trappings of a high-level diplomat: Lapis cufflinks peered from beneath his jacket sleeves, his charcoal chalk stripe cut in the classic lines of Savile Row, and the dull gold of a school signet ring glowed on his left hand as he adjusted his tie.

The hand that fussed with the Windsor knot was oversized, but the thick fingers were surprisingly agile, ending in neatly groomed claws that combed briefly through his mane of indigo hair then smoothed the dense mat of Prussian blue fur that emerged from his cuffs. The skin beneath was Celtic-woad.

There was a rustle from the back, a careful folding of _The New York Times_ business section, before Hank spoke,

"It shall not rain, _not_ on my first day."

The corner of Enrique's mouth drew into a smile as he returned his attention to the First Avenue traffic.

"It's _not_ your 'first day', _Patr__ó__n_. You presented your credentials to the Secretary-General the day after _El Presidente_ made that big speech in D.C. You know: _'so it is with the thanks of a grateful nation that I introduce our new Ambassador to the United Nations',_ " Enrique gave a sonorous impression of the U.S. President, and Shotgun Man gave a short laugh as Hank's driver displayed his annoyingly exceptional recall. From the rear, the blue-green eyes rolled in a self-deprecating response, and there was a strange animal quality to Hank's dismissive snort. Enrique checked the side view mirror, and continued. "I've been driving you to your office for a whole month now, what you been doin' there - shopping on eBay?"

Hank addressed Enrique's impudent remark with a curl of his lip, briefly revealing a set of dangerous-looking fangs before he replied.

"Since the destruction of the Worthington facility on Alcatraz, I've spent this last month forming a World Health Organization committee to reorganize distribution for the Cure. I spent last week with the Security Council; who, along with the World Court, are very keen to draw up an indictment against Magneto -"

"Gotta' catch the _pendejo_ first," Shotgun Man interjected.

"I assure you we will," Hank replied succinctly, and caught Enrique's gaze in the rear view once again, "And it _is_ my first day in the General Assembly, you smart pup! It's not all organizing Netflix queues and downloading iTunes, you know … and it was Fantasy Football, not eBay."

"Oh, yeah, Octavo says you owe him twenty on the Jets game," Enrique replied.

"You may tell Octavo I never welsh on a bet … and remind me to fire the lot of you."

"You can't fire us, _Patr__ó__n,_" Enrique chuckled as he swung the Navigator into the crescent arc of the United Nation fs Delegates Entrance. "We know too much."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Hank growled good-naturedly.

A UN security officer checked the vehicle's parking permits and waved them through. Enrique slid the Navigator into an open space at the curb and nodded to Shotgun Man who exited the passenger door and opened the rear door for Hank.

"Here you go, Prince Charming," Enrique grinned. "Have a nice time at the ball."

"Appropriate metaphor, _Primero_," Hank replied as he slipped his glasses into this jacket pocket and collected his attaché. "Wrong fairy tale."

Several dozen of the UN ambassadors and their attendant delegations mingled on the broad concourse. Hank was aware of the brief hush that settled among them as he gripped the open doorframe with his great, blue hand, dropped neatly to the curb and began to walk toward the entrance of the Assembly Building.

"Hey, _Patr__ó__n_!" Enrique called, and leveled an irritated stare at Hank. "Bodyguard, _comprende? _We had a deal. I get paid to do a job, _you_ let me do it."

It seemed ludicrous that Hank McCoy, former team member of both the X-Men and the Avengers, would need to employ a security detail; but as Ambassador to the United Nations and former Secretary of the Department of Mutant Affairs, his government had insisted. Enrique Doble-a street-hardened tough from the Dominican Republic-had more than filled the requirements. Enrique was dedicated and utterly dependable, committed to furthering the cause of mutant rights and, in addition, possessed a lively sense of humor. He returned Hank's agonizing penchant for abominable puns and black humor with an equal aptitude and enthusiasm.

The pair fell into step beside their employer. Enrique nodded to the small crowd confined behind a block of metal barricades on First Avenue.

"Looks like your fan club's here, _Jefe._"

The protestors had arrived early. Pro-Cure and anti-Cure, mutant rights advocates and pro-humanist groups, the divided sides were equally represented. There weren't many of them, and aside from a small group of professional political agitators, there was no real threat from the crowd; no bite, only a very loud and ill-tempered bark.

The majority seemed to be college-age youths shopping for a cause, others were mutants still longing for the Worthington vaccine. Some just wanted to catch a glimpse of themselves on the local news and played to the cameras. Scattered among them were clusters of unrelated demonstrators who sported causes against global warming, nuclear testing and the illicit small arms trade.

Police walked the line of the barrier, and brief manifestations of mutant powers erupted like summer grass fires. A pair of mounted officers touched their heels to their horses, and swept a handful of protestors back into the crowd with a neat sidepass.

"Ahh," Hank sighed, and favored them all with a showy wave, "I was beginning to miss them. It's nice to know they still care."

In the wake of the Senate investigation, and the nation's reaction to the events on Alcatraz, Hank's appointment as the U.S. Permanent Representative to the United Nations had been met with kudos and curses. His first week as Ambassador had drawn the expected protestors. Eventually, their numbers had dwindled to a few stanch advocates and activists who had set up camp outside his offices of the U.S. Mission, located a few blocks away.

Today, as the General Assembly gathered for its opening day, they had returned. Their ranks increased through Internet alerts, text messages and plain, old fashioned, word of mouth. His greeting was returned by the harsh shouts of the anti-mutant hate group that called themselves the Friends of Humanity. Their voices mingled with the mutants who shouted invectives as though Hank were the very devil and others who screamed his praises as though he were a rock star.

He scanned the press corps for a particular face, did not see it, and sighed a little.

As his entourage continued, he turned his attention to the profile of the Secretariat Building which rose as a green glass curtain behind the graceful, limestone slope of the General Assembly. He drank in a long, satisfied breath.

"Look at it! _'Vehement silhouettes of Manhattan—that vertical city with unimaginable diamonds,'" _Hank proclaimed grandly, and gave a short laugh at Enrique's silent look of weary inquiry. The young man was all too familiar with Hank's passion for spontaneous recitation. "Le Corbusier," Hank explained.

"The guy who made your office furniture?" Enrique frowned, referring to the iconic leather and tubular chrome-frame sofa and chairs that formed Hank's office suite.

"The very same. He also designed a building or two."

Briefly, Hank considered regaling his security men with the history of the UN Headquarters. From his avid interest in architecture, Hank could recite the credentials of the impressive team assembled to design the buildings which housed the international organization. With his expansive gift of rhetoric he could expound upon the bold, geometric design submitted by the French master Le Corbusier. He considered it a symphony of construct, a Post War style known, appropriately enough, as Internationalism which had served to influence the urban architecture boom of the 1950s. He could point out the end-cap of white marble that sheathed the slim vertical ascent of the Secretariat and compel them to regard the unique treasures in the General Assembly building: the stained glass window by Chagall, the Rockwell mosaic, or the marvelous Foucault pendulum that described the rotation of the Earth. However, anticipating the nonplussed reaction he would receive from the two men, he rejected the notion outright. Hank knew he could easily endure the _blasé_ expression from a single man, but to see the look reflected from his brace of bodyguards was too much to be considered. He, therefore, admired the Bauhaus-influenced architecture in silence.

"Ambassador McCoy!"

Hank turned toward the direction of the voice.

Near the Delegates Entrance, a tall man detached himself from a small knot of officials and approached. With a quick glance Hank noted that the man's jacket was cut to hide a shoulder holster, and in his right ear he wore the communications worm-wire favored by diplomatic security agents. He walked with the spring-steel readiness of a military officer and offered his hand as he drew near.

"Harrison Sterling," the man introduced himself. "Chief of UN Security and Safety. I wanted to take this opportunity to welcome you to the General Assembly; also, I'd like to offer an extra security detail to your delegation."

Sterling nodded to the smartly dressed man and woman waiting behind him. Both wore the solemn, no-nonsense look that Hank remembered from the dull-colored members of the FBI and the Secret Service. He regarded the security chief with an amused smile.

"Just for me, Chief Sterling? You're apt to turn my head with such attention, I have to warn you though, I turn purple when I blush."

Sterling allowed himself a slight smile. His lean face had the malleable features of an English music hall comedian and the steel-blue eyes of a caustic physician. _Eyes to twinkle or pierce_, Hank thought. Eyes that now took a warrior's measure.

"I assure you, we're not in the habit of personally meeting all our incoming delegates," Sterling spoke with a crisp Oxford accent, "but I'm sure you appreciate the unique circumstances surrounding your appointment. Quite a bit of press today … and the other."

Sterling gestured to the supporters, protestors and the attendant media circus that was now shooting B-roll footage of the noisy crowd; looking for filler on a slow news day.

"We like to call that the 'Amen Corner'," Sterling said with a tight smile.

"Hmm, yes, we've met," Hank replied, and directed a fang-filled smile to the more vocal members of the FOH, who howled at him, brandishing posters which featured misspelled Bible quotations.

The press ate it up and trained their cameras on Hank. Since his early days in Washington, they knew McCoy was always good for a grand gesture or a well-placed sound bite, and the crews jockeyed for position, hoping to catch the clip that would play endlessly on the cable news networks.

As Hank surveyed the political carnival before him, his former idyllic thoughts of Le Corbusier were replaced by a faded rock lyric,

"_Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends …," _He had not realized he had spoken the words aloud until he noticed the odd frown he received from the UN security chief.

"I beg your pardon?" Sterling asked, but his eyes held the look of bemused recognition.

"Emerson, Lake and Palmer," Hank replied.

Sterling nodded. "I'm rather more a Black Sabbath fan, myself."

"Yes, you and Tony Stark, I think. Well, I'll try not to bite the heads off of any bats," Hank chuckled, then drew a deep breath and continued with the matter at hand. "Chief Sterling, I assure you that I am quite used to both the press … '_and the other'_. I thank you heartily for your admirable attention. I do, however, have the utmost confidence in Enrique's ability to maintain my security. I have no wish to inconvenience your staff."

"My department is aware of Mr. Doble's unique … abilities. But, the organization feels-" Sterling's voice trailed to silence as he looked toward Enrique.

In five quick steps Enrique had produced an equal number of duplicates, shedding copies of himself like autumn leaves parting from a tree. With a sharp whistle, he threw the car keys to the fourth who caught them with a showy backhand and returned to move the truck. There were several surprised stares from Hank's fellow delegates, and an excited shout from the TV press as the remaining facsimiles of the Dominican bodyguard moved into coverage positions. Like the mutant criminal, Jamie Madrox, Enrique Doble possessed the gift to create perfect replicas of himself.

Also like Madrox, Enrique's dupes assumed a variety of individual personalities and abilities. Enrique Uno, as Hank privately thought of him, referred to himself as _El Primero_, "the first". His dupes followed in ascending numerical order: Segundo, Tercero, Cuarto, Quinto and so on. On duty he was always accompanied by Segundo, his alert and generally silent twin who had a keen interest in baseball. Tercero, was the resident "ladies man", and was dangerously proficient in a style of street fighting known as Jailhouse Rock. Thus far, Hank had encountered copies of the handsome Dominican all the way up to Dicemo - the tenth - who spoke only Spanish. While the majority of Enrique's dupes were dedicated service men, there had been the occasional rebellion among the doppelgangers. Octavo had last been seen at a craps table at the Trump Taj Mahal, and Quinto had fled to a weekend in Bermuda where he had apparently fathered a child, much to the dismay of Enrique Uno who was now engaged in a complicated paternity dispute.

The Dominican smiled briefly at Sterling's look of frank amazement. The security chief turned to face Hank's benign smile.

"My God," Sterling breathed, "I'd take a dozen like him, if I could!"

"That's the beauty of Enrique," Hank beamed as if he had invented him. "You only need one."

As they reached the Delegates Entrance Enrique began to absorb his dupes, the six men reduced to a quartet, the quartet to a duo and with a look of surprised indignation, Segundo disappeared into his host.

"Yeah, and you only have to _pay_ one," Enrique commented flatly.

"That too," Hank agreed with a smug smile.

Sterling gave a short laugh, and again offered his hand to Hank and to Enrique as well. "Ambassador McCoy, there is no doubt in my mind that Mr. Doble is an asset to your Mission. I'll let you be on your way. However, if there's any other area in which I may be of assistance to you, please don't hesitate to ask."

"Actually," Hank replied with a light touch to his voice, "there is something. Could you be so kind as to tell me where I would find the nearest Starbucks?"

To Sterling's own vast surprise, he told him. The Security Chief's cell phone began to ring, and he excused himself to take the call. Hank turned to Enrique with an inquiring lift of an eyebrow.

"Shall we?" he smiled.

Beside him, his bodyguard swore softly and stepped away, Segundo and Tercero appearing in his wake. Segundo muttered an epithet to Uno and there was a hasty exchange of Spanglish curses as Enrique briefed them on Hank's unscheduled detour. Segundo rolled his eyes, and the trio had to step quickly to follow McCoy.


	2. Hello, Seattle, I

A/N (and to borrow a page from Dorothy Parker) Dear Constant Reader: To any of you lucky enough to live in the shadow of the UN: Yes, I know there isn't a Starbucks in the UNDC building. Please pretend there is. It's Marvel movie-verse after all (_wink)_ there's probably a Starbucks down the street in the Baxter Building for Christ's sake –Oh, and I tossed in a couple of extra member nations to the General Assembly, too. Onward ...

**Legal line**: _Hank McCoy, Beast_ © Marvel Entertainment, Inc. Characters and Situations created in _"X-Men: The Last Stand"_ © 2006 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. _Sandra Fox/Renard, Enrique Doble _© this author (Alejandro Wolff really _is_ the U.S. Deputy Ambassador to the United Nations (or, at least, he was was in 2006)—Learn more about him at the U.S. State Department website—"The More You Know"!)

**Chapter 2: "Hello, Seattle, I'm Listening …"**

The nearest establishment to bear the name of Seattle's most famous coffee house was located at the United Nations Plaza, across the street from UN headquarters. Tucked into a corner of the building's vast lobby, the café saw a wide array of the world's population on a daily basis. Like an exotic marketplace, the Starbucks was filled with the babble of a dozen languages; the bright colors of native dress swirled together with the deep, rich aromas of coffee and spiced tea. And although the UN delegations did not always see eye to eye on matters of debate and International policy, it seemed that every race and nationality needed a cup of coffee to start their day.

A six-foot, country-bred boy covered in blue fur and an elegant suit hardly drew a stare as he waited in the short queue to place his order. After a brief scan of the café's patrons, Enrique stood near Hank and kept his eye on the lobby. Segundo snared the _New York Post's _sports section from an empty chair and Tercero flashed a grand smile at the busy barista who was a Beyonce look-alike. The girl at the register had the same shade of flame-red hair that brought Hank a brief, aching reminder of Jean Grey. _Sweet Jeannie,_ he thought, and his smile quickly returned as he remembered a stolen kiss that had landed him in the Xavier School's reflecting pond.

"Good morning," Hank began with a cheerful lilt. "Three Venti Caramel Macchiatos, please. Triple shot. Half soy, half non-fat. A little dry. Upside Down. Oh, and a banana nut muffin, I think. Enrique, coffee?"

All three wore the same expression of resigned indulgence. "No, thank you, _Jefe_," they chorused. Segundo returned to the sports page box scores, Tercero said something to the barista who gave him a shy smile.

The cashier was repeating Hank's order when he heard the voice behind him, and the blue-furred hand reaching for his wallet paused as Hank lifted his head sharply.

"My God, that is absolutely disgusting."

"Mutie Freak", "Blue Boy", "Mighty Joe Young" (although Hank secretly gave them points for that one) and if they'd had a look at the Discovery Channel: "Neanderthal", he had heard every epithet that a narrow and frightened mind could conjure. Hank was always ready with a quick come-back-words were as effective a weapon in his personal arsenal as his agility and brute strength-but in the venue of the United Nations he had been ill-prepared for the disparaging comment, and silently he cursed himself for thinking that his detractors had remained on First Avenue.

In the more than sixty years since its founding, the UN had served as a platform of what was the best of mankind; its global dream of peace and its desire for tolerance and understanding. It expounded the principles envisioned by the great thinkers of numerous generations; the very tenets and ideals Hank had embraced as a student at the Xavier School. However, Hank knew the reality of achieving both peace and tolerance came at a much higher price. Tolerance came only after conflict and compromise, and peace was rarely achieved before battles had been waged and heartaches slowly mended.

With exaggerated care, he placed his attaché case on the floor; and from the corner of his eye he saw all three of Enrique's incarnations tense as he turned to confront the speaker.

The woman behind him was not small. A tall brunette whose long hair was the color of burnished walnut, layered in a style that suggested it was recovering from a once popular coif known as the "Rachel". In a city obsessed with couture and Fashion Week, she was far from model-thin. Her figure was defined by generous curves that filled the hips of her tailored linen slacks and swelled the line of her blouse; a scoop neck, burgundy tunic decorated with bold, zigzag designs in autumn green and gold.

The bag she carried would not have been out of place on a safari. Large enough to hold a best-seller and a laptop, accented in silver and braided, whiskey-colored leather. Her sandals revealed lavender-polished toes that matched her square-tipped manicure.

Her jewelry was bold and heavy, tribal chic, adornments unique from the Journey Curve pendants and Illusion necklaces so common to the women of Manhattan. In addition to the leather cords and hammered charms that circled her neck hung a lanyard which identified her as a UN employee. She looked as though she was not afraid of a bacon double cheeseburger and a pint of good beer. She met his sharp, narrowed gaze with a bemused smile and an arched eyebrow.

"Who on Earth _drinks_ anything like that?" she continued.

Hank drew a deep breath, and set his mouth in a tight line as he spoke.

"Young lady, I will confess that I have something of a sweet tooth," He began evenly, ignoring the ill-concealed snort from Enrique Uno who was well aware of his employer's weakness for any type of confection. Hank pressed on with his detractor. "Or is it that you feel I should prefer a more _appropriate_ beverage…Jamaica _Blue_ Mountain, perhaps."

"No," she replied. and drawled the word with a slow timbre that told him she was not a daughter of the east coast. "It's just that 8:00 is a little early in the morning for liquid dessert, don't you think?"

"I'll pretend I'm in Jakarta, it's supper time there."

She laughed then and the merry glint in her dark eyes told him there had been no malice in her comment. She spoke with a jaunty tone and Hank quickly recognized the sharp-witted look of someone who fancied herself a professional wise-ass.

"You're Hank McCoy," she told him.

"How could you tell?" he asked in a dry tone, and found a smile to match her own. The three Enrique lapsed into a less guarded posture. She paused a moment before replying.

"They said you were tall."

He gave a short laugh and turned back to the waiting cashier, speaking as he tendered his Amex card.

"And for the lady as well." He indicated his heckler with a nod of his head. "Shall I presume you're pursuing a more conventional antemeridian offering, miss…?"

She thanked him prettily and leaned past him to order a Chai Latte, Venti, non-fat. She wore a crisp, citrus-based scent, a whisper of lime and bergamot in the top note, Burberry, he guessed or maybe Prada. He smiled again as she turned back and offered her hand.

"Sandra Fox."

"Your I.D. says 'Sandra Renard'."

"Ah, but 'Fox' is so much less pretentious than 'Renard', don't you think? Just Fox - Fair and Balanced."

Hank laughed, and they made small talk until their order was called. She politely declined a portion of the banana nut muffin that he broke in two with his sharp claws. Tercero received the lattes along with a smoky look from Beyonce-the-barista. He offered the chai to Sandra with a sly smile; and as she accepted the cup, her eyes widened slightly.

In the space between the thumb and first finger of Tercero's right hand was a laser-faded tattoo of the Greek letter Omega. A unifying symbol of the mutant gangbangers known as the Omega Muties, Enrique and all of his dupes possessed the mark. Hank noted Sandra's brief reaction of surprise; but said nothing. He thanked Tercero for his latte and smiled at her.

He guessed she had recently entered her thirties. Her wide, round face had left the soft-prettiness of her girlhood and was beginning to assume the defining planes of maturity. High cheekbones and arched brows framed her lively, brown eyes and the only adjective he could find to describe her wry, tight-lipped smile was 'snarky'.

As their conversation continued he found her coy without being affected, a girl who still knew the value of innocent flirting, and he suspected that Sandra Fox observed life with a clever monologue that ran privately in her head. She reminded Hank of a mischievous kitten grown into a playful, happy cat … a bold and buxom Holly Golightly.

"And what do you do at the UN?" he asked.

"I work in Language Services," Sandra raised an eyebrow as the smile appeared. "That means I talk for a living, no big surprise there, right?"

Hank chuckled and nodded.

"I understand that I have to keep any statements I make to the General Assembly to fifteen minutes in length—I don't know how I'll do it," he laughed, and sipped his latte. "Are you an interpreter or a translator?"

"I do both, actually, there are one or two dialects I specialize in … that's usually when I get called in to interpret. Mostly, I translate working papers for closed sessions and transcribe documents for distribution to the Assembly. They let me out for coffee now and then."

"How fortunate for me that they do," Hank smiled gallantly. "Had you not arrived to insult my order I would have been subjected to Enrique's doppelganger recapping last night's Yankees game."

Segundo frowned briefly above the sports page. Tercero was discreetly accepting an empty paper cup on which Beyonce had hastily scribbled her phone number. Enrique Uno glanced at his watch and commanded Hank's attention with a quick look.

"It's getting late, _Patr__ó__n_. You still have to meet with the Deputy Ambassador before the General Assembly begins.

Hank finished his macchiato and reached for the second, giving Sandra a quick wink as he did so.

"Enrique is my conscience," he explained. "Regrettably, he also happens to be correct, so I fear I must be off. I hope we'll meet again, Ms. Renard the Fox."

"I'm sure we will. I'm interpreting at the GA's opening session this morning. The Romanian ambassador is from Bacau, he speaks a Csango dialect."

"He isn't required to speak one of the core languages? Surely, his French—" Hank began.

"Oh, my God, his French is appalling," Sandra quickly interjected, "and his English sounds like he's 'plotting to kill moose and squirrel'!" She affected an exaggerated Eastern European accent, and Hank's deep baritone laugh boomed across the small café with a flash of fangs. Sandra grinned as she continued. "It's easier to let him speak Csango, but even that's a little tricky. It's not even a true Romanian; it's a medieval Hungarian dialect."

"And _that's _your field of expertise?" Hank's eyes widened a bit. "My stars, how did you come by that?"

"From my grandmother, who was from Bacau and taught me how to swear in Csango." With a slight tilt of her head, the snarky smile returned. "And so, Mr. Ambassador, this morning … I'll be the one whispering in your ear."

He gave her a grand smile and squeezed her hand in a friendly farewell as he turned to go.

"I'll be listening," he replied.

Sandra returned his smile and thanked him again for her chai. She left the blush of her lipstick on the lid as she sipped it, and she held his eyes for a long moment before he turned away. Hank dismissed Tercero's knowing smile with a disdainful growl.

Back in the green shadow of the Secretariat building, a slight breeze freshened from the East River and teased across Hank's collar. Again, his hand went to the knot of his tie, and he fought the urge to release the confining fabric of his respectability. Instead he reached for his third latte and exchanged a greeting with the ambassador from Wakanda as he reached the Delegates Entrance. Together they passed through the security checkpoint and stepped onto the escalator.

At the entrance to the General Assembly hall he met Alejandro Wolff, the U.S. Deputy Ambassador, and made arrangements to meet Enrique later that afternoon.

He chatted with Wolff as they settled into the seats held for the delegation of the United States. Under the guise of shuffling his attaché case and arranging documents, Hank stole a quick glance to the sound booths above the huge hall. There behind the glass, he was rewarded with a smile and a silent toast of a Starbucks cup as the girl took her chair and placed a set of headphones over her ears. Hank returned her smile with a gracious nod and resumed his conversation with the Deputy Ambassador.

_A Wolff, a Fox and now a Beast,_ Hank smiled as he considered the assembled menagerie. He drew his bifocals from his breast pocket and settled them precisely on his nose; and for the second time that morning Emerson, Lake & Palmer returned to his thoughts: "… _we're so glad you could attend … come inside … come inside…"_

With a quick call to order, Dr. Henry McCoy assumed his duties as the United States Ambassador to the 61st session of the United Nations General Assembly. When the ambassador from Romania began to speak he directed his eyes to the desktop, listened to the clear, sure translation from Sandra Fox, and hid the grin on his face behind his huge, furred hand.

Outside, coin-sized drops of summer rain began to fall. The press crews began to stow their cameras and sound equipment; and as their enthusiasm dampened, the protestors began to disperse.


	3. Ask Of The Steel

**Legal line:** _Erik Lensherr/Magneto _© Marvel Characters, Inc. Characters and Situations created in _"X-Men: The Last Stand"_ © 2006 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation.

**Chapter 3: "Ask of the Steel … "**

Erik Lensherr remembered the first time he had heard Tony Bennett sing the song.

It had played endlessly on a jukebox in a Manhattan diner, presided over by a group of noisy stevedores engaged in an alcohol-fueled debate over which singer had recorded a better version—Bennett or Sinatra-before the argument was settled by all involved agreeing that Ella Fitzgerald's "_Manhattan_" was better than any old song about some goddamn cable cars climbing half-way to the goddamn stars. For the remainder of the evening, the sultry voice of The First Lady of Song declared repeatedly that she would take the Bronx and Staten Island too. That had been nearly forty years ago, and now, as one of his co-workers crooned an off-key rendition of Bennett's valentine to San Francisco, he remembered also the first time he had seen the place where he now stood.

He had been a boy; in a movie palace in Poznan he had seen a newsreel of the shining marvel that spanned the land of gold and flickering magic. "Someday," his mother had promised, "Someday we will go there. We will take a ship to San Francisco, and you will stand on the great Golden Gate of the West." He told his son of the gleaming gems of California … gold in the north, orange in the south. A fairyland of sunshine and seashores. But a short time later his family had passed through a different gate — beneath the Teutonic words that proclaimed "Work Will Make You Free"- and a deeper, darker work had set the mother of Erik Lensherr free.

High above San Francisco Bay he worked in the early October afternoon. Friday. Payday. Nearly quitting time. Beside him the Bennett fan fell quickly silent as a bearded man in a red flannel, buffalo-check shirt began a mockish howling. The final member of their quartet began to laugh. An affable man with a brush-cut of prematurely grey hair who wore small, round spectacles; the sort of middle-aged family man who still collected comic books and liked to match baseball cards with a teenaged son. The sound of rivet guns abruptly replaced the boisterous conversation and good-natured swearing that passed between the men. He breathed a quiet sigh of relief as the work began once more.

With the personal fortunes of Warren Worthington and a generous grant from billionaire industrialist Tony Stark largely footing the bill for the reconstruction of the Golden Gate Bridge, the citizens of San Francisco—in fact, in a rare act of solidarity, all of California—had demanded it be restored exactly as it had been constructed seven decades before. While new materials and construction techniques were being employed, the project had revived the tradition of the four-man rivet gang to bind the massive puzzle of steel and adamantium.

When he had first hired onto the Golden Gate Rebuild, they had worried about his age. Too old, they had thought; but as the days progressed his co-workers had grown more and more impressed with this knowledge and aptitude. At the end of his first week, they had traded looks with one another and nodded their approval, and when they asked what other projects he had worked on, he had allowed himself a smile at the irony of the question and replied: _"I have had a great deal of experience with steel."_

He worked as a rivet catcher. It had been awkward in the beginning, catching the white hot rivet in the small metal cup, grasping it with the rivet tongs and giving it a quick snap to loosen the surplus flakes of metal before ramming home the bolt in the lacing of girders, but it came easier now. Uncannily easy. He seemed to sense the small bolts before they left the forge, guided into the cup as though drawn there, and sometimes it seemed that the flakes flew from the rivet with only a simple pass of his hand.

Sometimes he felt it sang to him, that cold, comforting song of the steel. He began to sense its whisper as it joined its fellows. A simple, familiar melody hidden in a symphony, so different than the titanic song of its destruction. Each day it grew warmer in his hands, eager as a returning lover. He asked it, and it answered. And each day he began to expand his dreams of retribution.

He began to smile.

In the near distance, tractor tugs moved back and forth from the rocky, little island named for the seabirds that nested there. The diligent workhorses of countless harbors, the tugs towed barges which held the final salvage of the Golden Gate's collapse into the Bay. The twisted, tumbled wreckage was off-loaded at the piers of Fort Mason, loaded onto waiting trucks that bore the brands of Stark International and Worthington Technologies. The harvested steel returned to hellish-hot foundries, forged into new life, returned to the construction site where it waited once more to become a portion of the massive Golden Gate. Recycled, re-forged, another Phoenix to rise from the ashes of a San Francisco disaster.

He had lived in the city since the night of the attack. Rising in darkness, beginning his work day when the pearl-pink sunrise glowed on the Marin headland. Apricot-orange sunsets lit his way home as he rode the MUNI bus to a derelict room in the Mission District, where he passed fitful nights in the crimson glare of the hotel's neon sign. Waiting.

He stared at the lonely little harbor rock. The chilly roost for pelicans had become a light house; then a military fortress, transformed into a forbidding prison in the lawless decades of Gin and Sin. Long after it had fallen into disuse it had served as a political stronghold for the neglected natives of a crowded nation. Ignored by their government and guilty only of the circumstances of their heritage, they had seized the island and demanded their political rights. The tenuous accomplishments of the gathered tribes were neatly wiped away as Alcatraz was reborn as a misguided factory for the manufacture of an ill-conceived, xenophobic "Cure". A DNA death camp operating in the city which had once spawned a Summer of Love.

He thought of that long-ago meeting in the forgotten neighborhood church. Recalled the pleading words of that stupid, hopeful idiot who had suggested forming committees and addressing the "right people" in Washington. He wondered how astonished that idiot would now be to learn that the "right people" himself had slammed home the fatal blow; the sting of the needles piercing his flesh as the Judas goat had danced an iron rictus at this feet.

Secretary McCoy. Safe, predictable, docile Henry McCoy. Forever that same eager boy, yearning to please. The perfectly trained Beast to head the newly-created U.S. cabinet department of Mutant Affairs, part of Cockrum's election platform of the "Evolution of the Human Spirit". McCoy had become the benign face of "the mutant situation", a Washington curiosity who doled out wisdom and _bonhomie_ at cabinet meetings and state dinners like some sideshow version of Will Rogers. His home-spun, prairie-bred common sense paired well with his daring exploits as a former member of the government ordained Avengers (his shadowy activities with the vigilante X-Men were rarely mentioned). McCoy was a true 'hero' by any definition; the darling of the Capitol Hill champions of Affirmative Action, and he looked good in the suit.

With the astounding announcement of the Worthington Cure, all eyes had turned to McCoy and the immediate actions of the burly, blue Secretary did not disappoint. The political spin-doctors of the electronic media had enjoyed days of speculation regarding McCoy's abrupt resignation. Bill O'Reilly's suggestion that McCoy had dropped from the public eye in order to be first in line for the vaccine the press had dubbed "The Worthington Rock-tail" had sparked an hour-long shouting match between Graydon Creed, the conservative leader of the FOH, and Evangeline Whedon, the leading organizer for the Mutant Rights Coalition.

Even more surprising was McCoy's return to the public spotlight. Reunited with the X-Men, he had appeared three thousand miles away from the political show ring of Washington. Like a retired fire horse who still answered the alarm bell, McCoy had distinguished himself in the battle which had destroyed the production facility of Worthington Labs and faced the personally agonizing necessity of vanquishing a former teammate.

Following the events on Alcatraz, the news press hailed McCoy and the rest of the X-Men as national heroes and vilified Worthington for funneling a quarter of a billion dollars into a self-aggrandizing attempt to develop a "cure" for his only son's unique "affliction". Mutants became the _cause célèbre_ on the Washington scene. McCoy had become the star of the Senate investigations into the terror attacks of the Brotherhood, and the social and political ethics involved in the distribution of a vaccine designed to eradicate what McCoy and an International panel of scientists described as a "design of evolution". McCoy's aggravating comment that if the Worthington Cure were to become mandatory, Congress would have no other choice than to protect mutants under the Endangered Species Act had drawn reluctant laughter from the Washington law makers.

The week of Senate investigations into the Battle of Alcatraz had concluded with a well-publicized White House dinner where McCoy had delighted the press with an impromptu piano duet played with the First Lady, and the decree that Alcatraz would be dedicated as a National Historic Battlefield. Lensherr had laughed when he heard.

And now there was the ridiculous, candy-floss news coverage of McCoy at the United Nations; "The _Real_ Cure is Tolerance" speeches delivered to the General Assembly in rich Shakespearean tones. His appointment to the International arena was nothing more that a calculated stunt. A bone to throw to a political show dog for a job well done, safely placed on a shelf where he would be occasionally seen, but do no real harm.

The rivet guns ceased. A companionable silence settled briefly among them. A gull rode the updrafts of the bay with effortless grace before it folded its wings and settled on a nearby girder. It eyed them with a cheeky tilt of its head, its curious doll's eyes staring at them defiantly. He reached into his lunch cooler and offered a left-over sandwich crust to the bird, who snatched it from his grip with a quick, greedy grab. The conversation began once more.

"How you doin' there, Len?" Thom, the songbird, asked.

The man in the burgundy hardhat looked at the speaker and gave a brief nod. Thom pushed on, they were used to his silent replies.

"Payday, today."

"Yes," he said evenly, and ran a gloved hand over his face. He had his own beard these days. He returned his gaze to Alcatraz Island.

"Can't beat the view," Kenny, the owner of the buffalo-check shirt, said amiably and walked the lacing of girders with the confidence of an aerialist.

"No," he replied, and his tone invited no other conversation. Iron-grey hair, iron-grey eyes, he regarded them evenly and hated them. The three steel workers exchanged a quick glance. Kenny shrugged dismissively.

The man with the round spectacles turned his own gaze to Alcatraz. "They're making a movie about it," he observed.

"Christ," Kenny swore, "they'll make a movie about any goddamn thing these days. I ain't payin' ten bucks to see somethin' I saw for free on CNN."

"Amen that," Thom replied. "I read about it in _USA Today_. Some English faggot's playin' the bad guy."

"Huh," Kenny grunted, "better a fag than some fuckin' mutie."

"I dunno," Bart, the film connoisseur, shrugged. "Way I see it, I got this job 'cuz 'a those muties fightin' each other. My grandpa worked this bridge in '36, and this gig beats freezing your ass off on that Vancouver project any day! "

"High steel work on the Gate ain't exactly workin' in the tropics, Barty-boy," Thom observed.

"No, but it isn't gonna snow anytime soon either."

The trio fell silent. The work continued. The sun dipped toward the horizon. Fog began to send creeping fingers through the arroyos of the nearby foothills. He thought of Carl Sandburg: '_The fog comes on little cat feet …'_

In the construction yard by the now-silent Visitor's Center the blast of an air horn signaled the end of the work day. He listened as Thom gave an exaggerated war-whoop, and began an equally tuneless rock and roll chorus that proclaimed: _'everybody's workin' for the weekend.' _Silently he collected his lunch cooler, a novel by Jerzy Kosinski, and followed the other men to the south anchorage where the paymaster's office had been established in the Golden Gate's former gift shop. He waited until his name was called. Over the long years he had established many identities, each with authentic credentials and attendant bank accounts. It had been so easy in the beginning, so much unclaimed wealth, so much of his people's sorrow left behind, so many names forgotten – so many waiting to be born. He employed one now, perhaps not one of his more witty monikers, but it fit his current persona.

"Erikssen, Len!"

He accepted the envelope and waited. On Fridays, Bart gave him a ride to the Ferry Plaza. He stood patiently as the three men opened their envelopes. A grin passed between them and Kenny gave him a nod.

"Check it out, Len. Bonus!" He elbowed Thom. "Worthington and Stark must be grinding their teeth to have ta' pay us extra."

"Worthington _owes_ us," Thom replied. "He owes this whole damn city. Stark'll get it back. He'll just charge the government another twelve mill for a jet-powered toilet seat."

Even Erik Lensherr laughed at that.

When they reached Crissy Field he asked Bart to pull over. Lovely evening, he said, he would walk a bit and catch the bus. The man made the usual polite observations that it was "no trouble", assured him it wasn't out of his way; but Lensherr only smiled and reassured the younger man that he would be fine.

"You take care, Len," Bart smiled.

"And you, my boy."

"See you Monday."

"Indeed you will."

He walked along the broad, grassy lawn of the former air field, and took the path beside the bay. He watched a woman who threw a Frisbee to an eager, playful dog. Nearby two children and a young father tagged the sky with colorful kites. The man laughed and applauded, and spoke an Afghani dialect of Farsi. A group of young people pounded out ancient rhythms in a drum circle, while two fisherman carried their rods and tackle to an elderly pick-up truck. He crossed the street and headed for the fanciful, Romanesque rotunda of the Palace of Fine Arts.

It was a magnificent structure. A wedding-cake fantasy built for the Panama-American Exposition over seventy years before. It had survived earthquakes and neglect, restored as an architectural jewel of the Marina District. It was a collision of romantic culture and design. Giant Corinthian columns supported a Greek colonnade that curved gently to the rotunda, a modern ruin of reinforced concrete, the Roman structure adorned with large friezes depicting the pantheon of Greek mythology. As day became evening young couples began to replace the groups of school children leaving the nearby science center who ran and shouted across the pavilion to scatter the ducks at the edge of the man-made lagoon.

As he walked he was sure now that he felt it. He had sensed it that morning as he had stepped onto the bridge, but as he crossed the vault of the grand pavilion he began to smile.

It was returning.

He felt again the familiar repelling force of the Earth's magnetic heart and he pushed against it. And inch. Perhaps two. The slight, comforting tug of the steel-toed workboots as his feet left the ground. A trick of the waning autumn light to an onlooker. The lingering couples around him too involved with one another to realize that as he crossed the rotunda, his footsteps spoke no echo. As he gently touched the ground, he thought once more of Ella Fitzgerald and the slow smile grew as he sang for no one but himself.

The high arch of the pavilion doubled his superb baritone and gave it back to him.

_"We'll turn Manhattan into an isle of joy…"_

On Monday Len Erikssen did not report to work. His narrow room in the Mission District revealed only a small collection of paychecks, all unopened, in the drawer of a shabby dresser.


	4. Pass The Sweet And Sour Shrimp

**A/N:** So welcome to chapter 4—which originally began its life as the back half of chapter 3—when the final draft finished out at sixteen pages, I clearly saw that I had two story elements that worked independently, and so I just separated them. And thanks so much to Jinx of the 2nd Law, the unbelievably talented bluenique whose illustration of this scene and attention to detail makes my little Virgo heart beat with joy, and to the irrepressible Eleni Dalby for the reviews that blew my doors off (and especially to Errol who brought the Royal Marines to my rescue)! The latter two assure me on a regular basis that _Political Animal_ is "big in Europe." So off we go—thanks so much for reading. (Oh, and the thing about the olive and the parking tickets is real—and yes, I _know_ the Plaza Hotel was closed for renovations in 2006, pretend it wasn't, I needed it, thanks.)

**Legal line:** _Hank McCoy/Beast_ © Marvel Characters, Inc. Characters and Situations created in _"X-Men: The Last Stand"_ © 2006 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. _Sandra Fox/Renard, Harrison Sterling, Enrique Doble and all others _© 2006 this author.

**Chapter 4: Pass the Sweet and Sour Shrimp**

By eight o'clock, Manhattan traffic had usually settled down from the frantic swarm of rush hour, but somewhere near the Metropolitan Museum of Art a three-car fender bender turned Sandra's cab ride into a stop-and-go ordeal that ate up the better part of twenty dollars. She had already been late, and had now probably missed the concert that was being held for the Secretary-General. _Screw it_, she thought, _at least I'll make it for the food_. At the corner of Fifth and Central Park South she tipped the driver and stepped out of the cab. Her heels made staccato taps as she trotted across the street to the entrance of the Plaza.

On the sidewalk in front of the hotel, a doorman offered his hand to a couple in evening clothes who exited a sleek, black Town Car, and Sandra entered the lobby behind a gentleman in a silk Nehru jacket who escorted an exquisite woman in a lavender and gold sari. They all exchanged polite smiles.

In the six years she had worked at the UN, Sandra had learned the subtleties of dressing for an evening reception: never better than the female delegates, and _definitely_ never better than an ambassador's wife or his mistress. Her own dress had come from Barney's. A simple, black halter, not too short, not too long; a diplomatic dress—it subtly defined her as 'the help.' She had dressed it up with black and green pashmina, and carried a black envelope clutch decorated with an antique marcasite brooch. Her jewelry was good and moderately expensive, a choker length necklace of peridots and tourmalines with matching ear studs. Her dark hair was caught up in a simple fall, fastened with a jeweled barrette.

Typical of any United Nations gala, there was a slow crush of security in the lobby. Wisps of polyglot conversations as the delegates and their guests merged through the checkpoints. Polite apologies as credentials were requested and inspected, and handbags checked. Security wands were passed over Armani tuxedos and Vera Wang creations.

As she waited, Sandra considered that there was always something magnificent about coming to this _grande dame_ of New York hotels. For nearly one hundred years, the Plaza had gazed across the southern end of Central Park. Its cool gold and marble lobby had seen presidents, kings and the common man, and its Grand Ballroom had been the scene for Truman Capote's spectacular Black and White ball; but mostly she loved it because it was the home of a precocious, fictional six-year-old troublemaker named Eloise.

The heroine of several fabulous books never intended for children, Eloise lived in a suite at the Plaza; cared for, in the absence of her socialite, jet-setting mother, by an exasperated English nanny. Eloise skibbled about the halls of the stately hotel at all hours, harrying the staff, inspiring her tutor to fits of apoplexy, delighted in room service, and consumed a great deal of time figuring out ways to get a present.

Sandra thought that Eloise pretty much had everything figured out exactly right.

Just past the security station, waiters cruised like helpful sharks on a coral reef, offering the delegates and their guests a selection of wine and canapés. She accepted a glass of champagne and a toast-point decorated with a dollop of something vaguely pink and sprinkled with chives that she hoped was salmon mousse. While the UN worried over climate change and improving global literacy, they were sometimes less than forward-thinking when it came to the_ hors d'oeuvres._ It seemed she endlessly encountered the same sweet and sour meatballs, bruschetta, spring rolls, beef carpaccio and goat cheese tarts at every reception they hosted. Somewhere in the Grand Ballroom, she knew there would be a long buffet station that would resemble a gastronomic greatest hits from the various member nations, and she truly hoped she had arrived too late to sample the noxious potato, onion and anchovy casserole that the Swedes called _Janssons Frestelse._

She spotted Sterling the moment she entered the Grand Ballroom.

She had known the Security Chief almost as long as she had worked at the UN. The son of a Savile Row tailor, he had served as a sniper in the Falklands, and gone on to train members of the SAS before an abrupt retirement and a move to the United States. He had worked for a time at Brooks Brothers before joining the UN as a Security Officer, and with his impressive military background and natural propriety Sterling had climbed quickly to his position as Chief of Security. Sandra wondered sometimes if his elite clientele had ever realized that they purchased their topcoats and ties from a former Royal Marines commando. In his off hours Sterling could be called upon to quote nearly any _Monty Python_ routine from memory, and was a connoisseur of classic rock. He was an accomplished guitarist; his most prized possession was an autographed 1958 Gibson Les Paul Sunburst, the crown jewel in his collection of vintage electric guitars.

Sterling stood in the mezzanine that overlooked the sunken ballroom floor, his sharp blue eyes missing nothing as he kept watch over the gathered diplomats. He reminded Sandra of a lone cowboy tending a grazing herd of elegant cattle.

As she approached, he put a hand to his ear wire as he listened to the radio traffic of his officers, and spoke briefly into the microphone hidden in the cuff of his tuxedo. She smiled as she slid up beside him, and while he did not take his eyes from the assembly of diplomats she saw the corner of his mouth twitch into a smile.

"Well, hello, Cinderella, don't you look lovely tonight?"

His eyes slid sideways to acknowledge her, and the tiny smile grew into smug satisfaction as he clasped his hands at the small of his back.

"Don't I look fabulous? It's Prada … and I'm carrying a gun," he replied, and rocked back on his heels a bit. "So, where have you been all evening that I haven't seen you, my pretty maid?"

She explained about the accident then added, "_And_ I was trapped in that damned security check of yours! My God, I thought your boys were going to strip search me."

"Darius would _love_ to, I'm sure," Sterling replied, and returned his eyes to the guests before he continued. "Security's tight tonight. I've got the Secretary-General, two prime ministers, and a cardinal from the Holy See here. The new Permanent Representative likes to wander, and despite that flawless, self-replicating bodyguard of his, he often succeeds in his attempts to skedaddle. We chased him down in McFadden's the other day where he was having a Black and Tan, eating shepherd's pie and watching the bloody Mets game. Worst of all, he'd taken Senegal and Mongolia with him! I don't know how those boys keep up with him," Sterling nodded toward the pair of Enrique standing nearby, and gave a sympathetic shake of his head. "So it is now also my obligation to spend the evening watching Henry McCoy," he smiled at her suddenly, and looked insufferably pleased with himself. "Aahh—sometimes I _do so_ love my job."

Sandra found Hank easily. Impeccable in a shawl-collar tuxedo and onyx shirt studs, the new U.S. Ambassador was the center of a small knot of delegates and their various attendants, speaking in French with an excellent accent. He held a champagne flute in one hand, and like a conductor cuing an orchestra, he punctuated his conversation with neat waves of the other, his dark indigo claws etching the air as he spoke. He stood apart from them in every way, the epitome of an urbane New Yorker.

As Hank's comfortable laugh rolled across the room, Sandra returned Sterling's sigh, and nodded her head.

"God, I know. I used to read those _Avengers_ comics until they fell apart. Okay, so it's not just me then, is it? There is something _impossibly_ sexy about him."

Sandra was suddenly caught in the thousand-watt light of Sterling's steel-blue eyes. He drew in a deep breath, and released it with the contented sigh of a starving man sitting down to a feast.

"Oh, my dear, if _mutant _meant _gay_ I would forget I was a lady and throw myself at your dear Ambassador's feet!" he confessed with a candor he rarely displayed in public. "I'm not usually into Bears, but every rule has its exception."

"Sterling!" Sandra exclaimed with astonished delight. Sterling infrequently discussed his private life. She had known him for almost a year before she had been invited to meet Marcus, the Wall Street broker who was Sterling's partner. Sterling returned his attention to the reception, but the smug little smile remained at the corner of his mouth.

"Oh, don't act so shocked, my little vixen, _you_ started it. But no such luck for me. Truth be told, the new Perm Rep had a nasty break-up not long ago."

She looked toward Hank once more. The little group had moved on. He exchanged greetings with a Bolivian Air Force Colonel, then turned to bow gracefully over the hand of a handsome African woman wearing a _gele_ head wrap.

"Really?" Sandra said with curious intrigue. Sterling regarded her thoughtfully for a moment before he spoke.

"Mmmm—hmmm," he nodded judiciously. "Word is the NBC Evening News Harpy threw him over for her _job._ Of course, _Family_ gossip says otherwise."

Sandra lifted an eyebrow. "Oh? And what's the word on the Gay Grapevine?"

Sterling paused to give the room a clinical sweep before he focused his attention on Sandra. She recognized that look; the raised eyebrow, and the tight-lipped, self-righteous smile that presaged only the best of all possible bitchy queen dish. Slowly, he leaned down and whispered a single word in her ear.

Sandra's dark eyes widened as though she had witnessed a horrible accident, and her hand flew to her mouth to stifle the squeal that rose in her throat. She whirled on the UN Security Chief, nearly bent double as she clutched Sterling's Prada-clad arm.

"_You_ _are making that up!"_ Sandra accused with gleeful disbelief.

Sterling regarded her with the superior air of Queen Victoria, and solemnly raised three fingers in the Boy Scout salute. "You have my word as an Eagle Scout. Besides, it _has_ to be true, I read it in _The Enquirer_. Marcus loved it so much, he clipped it out and put it on our fridge. Marcus simply _loathes_ her. Two months later, newslady's bestial boyfriend had found himself a stylist, those dishy London suits _and_ that big job in Washington." He gave a mock sigh and a theatrical '_tsk-tsk'_. "Alas, poor Trish, no 'Mrs. Ambassador McCoy' for her."

"Oh, my God, that is the _best thing_ ever!" Sandra's eyes glowed with unashamed delight. "What an amazingly stupid _bitch!"_

"Well, what do you expect from someone with that tacky Helena Rubenstein hair?" Sterling shrugged. When he looked at her once more, the schoolyard gossip smile had been replaced by a look of sincere concern. "You like him then? You know what kind of hell it could become. Bad on the face of it for him, and dangerous for you."

"I know," Sandra answered, and her eyes were not on Sterling when she spoke.

She felt a touch at her wrist, and when she looked up, Sandra saw a wistful understanding in Sterling's eyes, "Lord knows I'm absolutely the _last _person to comment on sexual taboos … but if you're asking Uncle Sterling, I say that it is time enough for you to put away your widow's weeds, and return to the land to romance and heartbreak."

"I'm not a widow," Sandra replied tiredly, it was an weary conversation between them.

"Then time to stop acting the part."

She gave him a sharp look, but there was only a kind understanding in Sterling's eyes, and a deeper look of affection. She sighed and looked across the ballroom once more.

"I can't do this, he's the Perm Rep, I'm an employee. You're right, it's absolutely dangerous, and I am scared to death."

"So is every little girl who sets off into the woods alone," Sterling intoned ominously as he slipped his hand against her back, and pushed her firmly forward. "But I say, go bag that Beast."

"I adore you, you know," she said, and meant it. It had been Sterling who had given her the copy of _Eloise._

He looked back at Hank and smiled slightly.

"And I you, my sweet," he replied softly.

Hank surrendered his empty champagne glass onto the tray of a passing waiter and, after a brief debate with himself, politely accepted the refill that the young man offered. A glance at his watch told him it was just after nine and he wondered how much longer he needed to stay before he could make a graceful exit. The concert to honor Kofi Annan, the retiring Secretary-General, had been lovely-the food, however, was not, and Hank longed to say his good-byes, collect the various incarnations of Enrique, and head to the nearest Nathan's hot dog stand.

Still, the evening had gone well, most of his fellow delegates had been eager to welcome him as the new U.S. Ambassador. They had graciously laughed at his jokes and the champagne had been excellent. He had been delighted that the reception had given him the opportunity to speak several of the languages in his repertoire; but he could tell from the bemused expression on the Chinese ambassador's face that his Mandarin needed some work.

He gave another glance at his watch—a slim, Cartier tank-design that he liked because it nestled gently beneath the fur at his wrist-and was about to signal to whichever manifestation of Enrique was leaning on the mezzanine balustrade when he caught the scent of a familiar perfume: bergamot … but this evening, warm notes of amber and jasmine replaced the lime. He began to smile.

"Egypt's not _speaking_ to Germany," a low voice beside him confided in the sort of whisper used by racing touts passing along a tip about a sure thing running in the Sixth at Belmont.

He turned, and his smile widened as he recognized her. Ms. Renard the Fox. He had seen her twice more in the Starbucks line during the two weeks of the debate of the General Assembly. He had complimented her on her interpretation skills, and she had dimpled prettily and claimed it was nothing; but that, so far, had been the extent of their encounters. He thought she looked lovely, and she was certainly a welcome diversion from the uninspired food and the murmur of politics.

"I beg your pardon?" Hank asked.

Sandra indicated a cluster of delegates near one of the buffet stations with a brief nod of her head.

"Egypt's not speaking to Germany," she repeated in the same conspiratorial tone, "because Germany just ate the last of the shrimp."

Hank gave a sharp look toward the group near the buffet station, and indeed four of the seven seemed to be studiously ignoring one another while they loitered near the entrance used by the catering service. He raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"You must be joking."

"Oh, I assure you I'm not; you should have been here last year when Azerbaijan hogged all the beluga. Norway about busted a gut," Sandra replied, and gestured to the buffet. "Welcome to the glamorous world of international diplomacy: We have celebrity ambassadors for UNICEF, a gallery exhibit on the symbolism and sanctity of the olive in Greek culture, and last I heard eighteen million in unpaid parking fines racked up by delegates who claimed diplomatic immunity."

"The olive was a keystone in the commerce of the Known World once upon a time," Hank replied dryly.

"So were pepper and salt, throw a little anchovy in there, and I think we've got ourselves one hell of a Cesar salad."

His deep baritone laugh rolled across the ballroom once more. "May I get you a drink?"

"I thought you'd never ask," Sandra gave him her pussycat smile as Hank hailed a passing waiter.

"Are you working tonight?" He asked as they touched the rims of their glasses in a playful toast and he took a sip.

"Yeah," she nodded, and raised a finger toward the ceiling. "I have a room upstairs … hundred bucks. Thousand if you want to spend the night."

It had been a long time since Hank had done a spit-take. His laughter forced its way through his coughing and the wine that had rushed into his sinuses. When he wiped the tears from his eyes he saw the familiar snarky smile was firmly in place.

"I may have deserved that, and I'm certain I should have phrased that differently," Hank admitted with a laugh. "I suspect I'm going to have to watch myself with you, Ms. Fox."

"Well, you know how we foxes are," she smiled.

"Hmmm, clever and sly," Hank nodded. "I am, however, curious about your rather _unique_ observations of this organization. We certainly do more than appoint actresses as Goodwill Ambassadors and celebrate the accomplishments of Mediterranean fruit."

"Well, after you've been here awhile you tend to have seen and read many interesting things," Sandra replied. She paused for a sip of champagne. "I probably don't need to mention that in addition to the UN's successes at eradicating smallpox and combating terrorism, they are also responsible for the Oil-for-Food scandal, and the deplorable behavior of the Peacekeeping Forces in Bosnia and Congo."

"Yes, and those reprehensible situations have been addressed," Hank said soberly. "Ms. Fox, it is my earnest desire to make this world a better place for _all_ of humanity to inhabit. And I plan to make that my main goal as the head of the U.S. Mission."

Sandra raised her glass in a salute, "Mr. Ambassador, your track record so far leaves no doubt that you will achieve every goal of your Mission. But I'm sure that, you particularly, are aware that things are not always what they appear to be, and there are lots of things that go on in an organization that rarely make the papers."

"Point taken," Hank conceded graciously, and began to suspect that Sandra Fox might be a very useful person to know. They finished their champagne, and Hank gave a long sigh, he was hungry, and, despite the delight he found in his present company, he was growing bored with the evening and he suddenly stifled a yawn with the back of his hand. Sandra tilted her smile at him.

"Am I keeping you up?" she asked.

"It's been a bit of a long day for me," he confessed with a small smile.

"Yeah, me too," she agreed, "and you can only take so much _baba gannouj_ and escargot, before it's time to call it a night."

Hank spoke suddenly, "Ms. Fox, may I see you home?"

Sandra felt as though she had been asked to the prom by the star quarterback—and perhaps she had. She forced herself to swallow before she answered,

"I'd like that very much, Mr. Ambassador, but I gotta tell ya', I live on the Upper East Side, it'd be a bit of a drive back to the Waldorf."

"I don't live at the Waldorf, and please, my name is Hank," he replied, and caught Enrique's attention with a quick gesture. The young man looked relieved, and nudged his nearby dupe who grinned and hurried off to fetch the Navigator. With a quick snap of his fingers Enrique produced another double to take the missing man's place. The new man nodded a greeting to the Ambassador then turned his head to smile at a passing waitress. It was Tercero. Enrique Uno spoke a single, sharp word to him, and Tercero replied with a shrug. Hank sighed slightly then turned to Sandra who was regarding him with a suspicious frown.

"The residence for the U.S. Perm Rep is at the Waldorf Towers," she said cautiously, as though she were explaining something conspicuously obvious. "They _did_ tell you that when they gave you the job, didn't they?"

"Yes," Hank chuckled, "I've used it for a press reception and hosted a dinner for the President there. It's lovely, but I don't care to live there, I have a place downtown."

"You live _downtown_? Uh, that's _really_ a drive from the East 80s."

"Ms. Fox, I would escort you to New Jersey if I had to," Hank replied handsomely. "It's my pleasure to see you to your door." He frowned suddenly. "Unless, of course, you'd rather I didn't."

"Oh God, no!" Sandra said quickly, and cursed herself for an idiot. "I'd love to go home with you."

She bit her lip and closed her eyes as she saw Hank's smile return with a dangerous, playful edge; knowing that she had just committed the most grievous of all wise-ass _faux pas_: _Never give ammunition to your opponent_. She silently awaited the firing-squad of his reply.

"Usually I have to pay for supper before I hear that," he said in a low vibrato.

"That isn't what I meant," she spoke to the floor when she replied. Hank chuckled again, and placed a gentle hand on her back.

"Then I shall have to hope for better things," he said softly, and she felt a frisson of longing pass through her as the fur on his wrist brushed her bare flesh. "Home we shall go for now, though I have to warn you I'm making a stop at Nathan's on the way … I'll pay," he grinned at her.

Sandra bobbed her head in slow conformation. "I asked for that," she admitted with a resigned smile.

"Yes, you did," Hank concurred lightly, and offered her his arm.

She tossed a look back at Sterling who stood with his eyes trained on them both, his hand raised to his face, his three middle fingers were curled toward his palm, the thumb and small finger extended. "_Call me_," he mouthed at her with exaggerated delight as she accepted Hank's arm. Sandra gave him a sly wink. Sterling blew her a kiss.

Hank smiled to himself, and pretended not to notice.


End file.
